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In the late morning of this very hot Summer’s day, Jackie drove me to Mudeford Quay. This was the first occasion since my surgery on which I squeezed myself into the car without having been forced to do so by a medical appointment. My Chauffeuse Extraordinaire drove very slowly around the quay and the harbour, stopping on occasion for me to photograph a subject through the passenger seat window.

Departing boats and stationary buoys shimmered on the waves as we arrived;

one gentleman shaded his eyes as, perched on his bag, he watched the activity.

Fishing was undertaken from the quay and from the spit opposite.

Leaving the quay, we cruised along the harbour where swans paddled past moored boats

and a skimming sailboarder.

Squawking black-headed gulls strutted about

beside the dinghy park;

and the sailboarder came into clearer view.

A little dog trotting beside its master paused and urged its mistress to keep up.

I wondered whether two women on a bench were aware that another pair was about to pass in front of them.

We diverted to Avon Beach where I disembarked and leant against the sea wall watching a small boy smoothing a log on the sand. He, and a couple in chairs nearer the shore were oblivious of each other.

Already, well before noon, the beach was filling up with sun-seekers settling into chairs or lying on the sand with varying degrees of protection. Some would undoubtedly regret the exposure tomorrow.

While one gentleman and a boy engaged in bucket and spade activity, another grappled with a crossword.

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Another pleasantly sunny morning gave way to a more overcast afternoon. Much of my day was spent in boring administrative tasks involving banking, form-filling, posting letters, sorting out a computer problem, paying a fixed penalty speeding fine, and finalising and paying for our funeral plans, and exchanging for sterling euros I had kept in a pot for four years. I therefore welcomed a drive out, taking in Brockenhurst, Beaulieu and Lepe.

Several of the forest pools are now foaming with water buttercups.

A virtually deserted Lepe beach was the scene of what I took to be sea defence works of some kind. Apart from a digger on the shingle, much of the equipment seemed to be on larger moored craft with smaller boats engaged in some kind of exploratory activity. Ferry boats and yachts crossed the scene as usual; a daredevil wind surfer delighted in taking to the air; a more upright water skier took advantage of the brisk breeze, and a black dog played fetch with a ball; all against the backdrop of the Isle of Wight.

As we left the car park we were careful not to disturb a beast with two backs.

We stopped off at Milford on Sea to purchase some Mr Pink’s fish and chips to accompany our pickled onions for our dinner at home.

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Today was another featuring sunny intervals in cloudy skies. I began with a stroll round the garden where the latest opening rhododendron is progressing well.

Becky and Ian having stayed over, we all lunched at the Beachcomber in Barton on Sea.

The Solent’s waves were choppy; the Isle of Wight and The Needles were swathed in haze;

crows struggled against the blustery wind on the clifftop, and airborne alongside gulls.

This afternoon we took a trip to New Milton where Ian and I visited a solicitor for an executorship matter, while the ladies went shopping. Afterwards I sat on a bench in the Skate Park while Ian hunted for the shoppers.

Black- headed gulls scavenged on the grass against the backdrop of the distant mural;

a couple of young lads experimented with skateboards, until school was out when others joined them on bicycles.

This evening, before Becky and Ian returned home, we all dined on Jackie’s splendid beef pie, crunchy carrots, cauliflower, and broccoli, and creamy mashed potato. Becky and I drank more of the Malbec, Jackie drank Hoegaarden, and Ian, Peroni.

My friend Paul Herbert sent me an e-mail this morning containing a photograph from my Parents for Children consultancy days. This would have been taken in the late 1980s or early 1990s. Paul’s delightful mother, Eve, stands, cuppa in hand, on the viewer’s far left. I am at the back.

One of the problems of a freelance life is late payments. Most agencies make you wait for money for work done. I would send out invoices at the end of the month and sometimes wait another two for settlement. Not so with Parents for Children. This is because Eve Herbert was the finance officer. She settled my accounts by return of post, for which I was always grateful. Eve’s parents were also a boon to the organisation. They cheerfully and regularly carried out voluntary tasks, like addressing envelopes.

My frustrated friend Michael Kindred, also self-employed, once chased up a finance officer with the question: ‘Did you get your salary cheque this month?’. The bemused gentleman said he had. Mike responded by telling him that the outstanding invoice was the equivalent of his salary. Such a conversation would never have been necessary with Eve.

What I find astounding about the image above is its method of delivery. There I was, playing a few turns at Lexulous, when up pops a message alerting me to Paul’s chat. The chat contained the photograph. I, of course, didn’t know what to do with it in that format, so asked Paul to e-mail it. He did. And all this was carried out from my friend’s mobile phone. I was then able to tweak it a bit on iPhoto.

Jackie and I, joined for lunch and afterwards by Elizabeth, concentrated on sorting out the living room. Elizabeth cleaned the knobs from the doors she had scrubbed yesterday. She then proceeded upstairs to work on doors and skirting boards.

Early on this beautiful blue-skied evening, Elizabeth drove us down to Milford on Sea. She and I walked along Hurst Spit whilst Jackie worked on her puzzles in the car.

A huge squabble of black-headed gulls hovered on the air above the car park. They squealed vociferously from beaks which all pointed to the same spot on the sea wall. On the other side of the wall a family were enjoying a picnic. There were no pickings for the foraging birds.

On our way back along the spit, in the face of the lowering sun, we were surprised to see a group of young men backing towards us. Walking towards them was a slender red-haired young man wearing dark glasses. We then saw that the man in the shades was being filmed. This, we were happily informed, was a rising young artiste named Lloyd Allen who hailed from High Wickham. Watch for the name, and remember you read about him here.

The three of us then dined at Bombay Night, on the excellent food we have come to expect from this restaurant. We all drank Kingfisher.